


the sleep of the serpent

by abaddon (nothingbutfic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 23:17:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12518860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/abaddon
Summary: History always repeats itself.





	the sleep of the serpent

**Author's Note:**

> A fic written and set post-HBP. Snape. Harry. Draco. And all the permutations therein. Thanks for Florahart for the beta.

  
His house at Spinner’s End is no more. Severus Snape has seen to that. He stood over the small rise, cloak flapping in the harsh bitter wind (and what wind nowadays is not harsh, what welcome is not bitter?, he thinks, and knows not to answer those questions), and watched as the small household collapsed in fire and smoke.

It was his childhood home, a place for learning, a place for comfort and joy and family, but he has no need for learning, no capacity for comfort or joy, and all his family are dead. He has no time for home anymore. Perhaps he never did. Perhaps he had gotten soft; feared too little and wanted too much. This is his reward. He hardens his heart against the sight, and strides into the encroaching evening. He does not care about the rubble he leaves behind; he does not wish to, and so he does not. Memory is cage; emotion, artifice, a subjective prison touted by fools and martyrs.

The sting in his eyes is from the smoke, that is all; he cannot feel a thing, not even the cold. This pleases him, if he could said to be pleased anymore.

Severus Snape is a wanted man. This is not an unfamiliar situation for him. He bears it with the same brittle displeasure that has remained steadfast throughout an equally displeasing life, and as the War blossoms from one corner of the miserable country to the other, he flits from domicile to domicile in a way that would make Horace Slughorn envious.

He leaves them not as he found them, but as he wishes those who seek him to find them; mangled, destroyed, ruined. For the Order, for the Death Eaters; they are a warning, a reminder: he is Severus Snape, the Half-Blood Prince, killer of Albus Dumbledore. He should not be challenged, lest they wish to suffer a similar fate. He has done what even Voldemort could not, and now he sets his charms and turns away and another dwelling collapses in onto itself without so much as a glance.

These things do not need to be checked, of course; if he could kill Dumbledore then surely managing to reduce some wood to kindling is no great burden. (He reminds himself of these things because they sicken him, and he thinks he still needs to be sickened every now and then. Albus would have approved.)

He hides, and hates it. Skulks, and loathes it. Condemns Potter and Dumbledore and Voldemort and Narcissa and Bellatrix and Draco for getting him into this situation, and tears them limb from limb in his mind. (His mental torture of Potter is particularly unpleasant, and extended; the brat used his book, and made Severus into a fool by doing so. Tearing him limb from limb would be a mercy compared to what he wishes upon Harry Potter.) He is, after all, a man who appreciates his creature comforts, and he can afford no comfort now, no succour against the reality of his current existence, as pathetic as it is.

But he has long learned to be pathetic, and pathetic men survive. His hate keeps him warm, and his pride keeps him moving, and the War gets along without him: he makes sure of that, and it helps to be feared as he is feared: unseen he becomes almost mythic, the murderer of Dumbledore, cast into the shadows, and the inner circle of Hell, with all the other traitors.

After three months in the Lake District, he begins to settle. Not trust; he knows better than to do that. But he settles, prepares and comes to an understanding. He does not contact anyone, of course – he does not wish to be found, he cannot afford to be found, and this is merely one of the many grievances he holds against the world at large.

One day in June there is a knock on his door. Severus pulls his wand out with practiced ease and strides to the door with a measured stride; if he is to die now, he does not wish to rush it.

Draco Malfoy stands outside, sullen and thin and wearing ratty robes, hair lank against his head. He is still proud, though, still stubborn, and raises his chin to glare at Severus. This is the reason Severus is hunted; this is the reason he is pilloried and hated and feared; this is the source of the Dark Lord’s displeasure – that he put the safety of one small boy ahead of the plan – that he was concerned about one small boy at all.

But Draco is a boy no longer, for all his bad humour. “They’re after me,” he says.

“I rather thought they might be,” Severus replies, and stands aside to let Draco in: he is, after all, almost as threatened as Severus himself, and therefore no threat at all. They both know they are marked men by either side; betrayal would not forestall capture or execution, merely delay it, and so there is no point in betrayal: they are beyond hope; survival is their only option.

It’s the closest either of them comes to an apology, and it’s not enough, but it’ll do.

*

Draco settles in. They don’t need words anymore – they speak the same language, the language of traitors, and the absences between them stretch until they linger. They have been tempted and they were fallen and they are damned for it. They have lost everything; they have betrayed everything – even each other. Everything except themselves. It is a hollow reassurance, but a necessary one.

The days fade one into another. The small house becomes almost cosy; littered with open books that Draco typically forgets to put away, and half-drunk cups of tea. He is a man, but the remnant of the boy remains, and he is always nonplussed at the sheer lack of a house elf.

They both read. On rare occasions they even talk. Draco dyes his hair a muddy brown – he never would have done that in earlier times, but even fashion and style can bend to considerations of survival, and goes to buy food in the local wizarding district.

“Mother’s dead,” he announces one day, matter of fact, bag of groceries in his arms, and dumps it without ceremony on the small kitchen table. “She killed herself.”

“I understand she was under pain of death at any rate,” Severus says from behind him.

“Yes. She wouldn’t tell them where I was, apparently. Aunt Bella didn’t believe her.” When he turns to Severus, there’s a small smile in his face, the kind that doesn’t touch his eyes. Severus knows that expression far too well to believe it; he’s used it enough times as a young man. "Mother didn't even know; not that that mattered in the end."

“Your Aunt is a very singular woman, Draco.”

“I want to kill her,” Draco snarls, suddenly savage. “I want to see her dead. I want to kill her.”

He looks all the younger then, for his pain and potency, hands curled into fists at his side, mouth set, eyes blazing. All the younger, and all the more vulnerable; Severus feels old, old before his time – perhaps Albus was right, and all the anger in the world cannot be a boon. He tips Draco’s chin up with one finger, and looks into his eyes.

The kiss, when it comes, is not unexpected; what is unexpected is the way Draco allows it to happen, and responds in kind.

“Then you should kill her,” Severus tells him, and when he wakes in the morning, he is not surprised to find his bed empty and Draco gone. Little surprises him anymore, after all; he cannot afford to be complacent.

*

He keeps himself alive. He putters about the house like an old man, wearied and wizened, and finds perhaps that he _is_ an old man before his time. He reads his books; he drinks his tea, and indulges every now and then in a fine glass of port. He has a life, now; it worries him, occasionally, but he is old, and bitter, and has begun to understand that death waits for no man. He cannot put aside what fate has in store, and he has gotten sick of running.

Besides, he likes his port; and he waits for Draco.

One soggy evening in August, nine months later, there is another knock at the door. Severus draws his wand, opens it, and finds a bedraggled Draco Malfoy standing out there in the rain, sopping wet from head to toe.

“I _got_ her,” he says, eager and gleaming with a child’s pride at a job well done, before Severus ushers him inside with an arm around his shoulders, and the gleam fades. “I got her,” Draco repeats, and sounds as tired as Severus feels.

Severus dries him off with a charm, and Draco manages a thin, half-hearted smile at the gesture, wrapping his arms around Severus’ frame and looking up at him with an expression that is more pensive than eager; he’s no longer a child, or a boy, and hormones have gone the way of Quidditch, brooms and that fatuous rivalry with Harry Potter, so Severus smoothes down Draco’s hair with a hand and kisses him slow and deep. It is not gentle; it is thorough, and Draco clings to him like a drowning man, hands tangled in his robes, clutching at him all the more possessively as the kiss lingers on, and he only breaks it as he starts to shudder against Severus, burying his face in to the man’s neck. Severus’ hands roam down the wiry body, cupping his arse, and holds him close in a way that’s distinctly less than paternal and more than a little familiar.

It’s only after a short pause that Severus realises Draco isn’t sobbing; his shaking is due to rage, not fear, and he pulls away with the speed of the dragon he was named for, whipping out his wand and holding it to Severus’ throat before the other man can blink.

“I should have known you _snakes_ would be together,” he spits, contempt in every syllable, and things begin to get a little clearer.

“You’re not Draco.”

“How impressive of you to recognise that, Professor. You didn’t even check my identity; I’m disappointed. Clearly the Ministry guidelines on staying safe in the home and protecting yourself were a waste of ink when it came to you.”

“Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?” Severus hisses, full of hate and old, old anger. “If you tell me where Draco is and leave now, I might spare your pathetic life, whoever you are. I am no easy target, I killed Albus Dumbledore.”

Draco’s eyes go narrow, and hard, and the wand presses a little closer into Severus’ neck. “Yes, yes you did, didn’t you?.” The heady emotion in Draco’s voice is a clue; this is not a Death Eater execution then; Draco – the _real_ Draco - will most likely be safe. He finds he is relived at this, and stores that away for another time: he has invested too much in that young man not to care.

He stalls and tries to bide his time. “Polyjuice Potion, I presume? That takes a lot of planning.”

“Standard procedure. We carry round a fresh supply in case of infiltration.” Another interesting fact to note; the Order has lost some of its scruples, but then it’s probably had to. “Besides, it’s very easy to make when you have the help of the Half-Blood Prince.” He’s grinning now, eyes glittering in a way that Draco’s never did, and Severus knows who his captor is.

“Potter.”

“Professor.”

“I suppose you see yourself as some kind of just executioner.”

“Something like that. You killed him, so I'll kill you; after I offed Voldemort there wasn’t much for me to do. Except the clean up.”

Severus raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you had done away with the Dark Lord. Do you wish me to fall on my knees and bow down? It would appeal to your ego.”

“Nah,” Potter says, with Draco’s face and Draco’s voice, and holds the wand steady. “I don’t need that. I never needed that. But you never did anything but judge me.”

“Is this what you came here to do? Make me suffer through your pitiful whining?”

“I _came here_ to kill you.” Potter’s expression hardens a little; and he bites on his lower lip.

“Then kindly get on with it!”

“No. I want you to wait. I want you to sweat. I want you to suffer and feel utterly hopeless. The way you made him feel.”

“You fool, I never wanted to kill him.”

Potter shrugs; it looks odd, for Draco Malfoy to be so nonchalant. “Oh, I know. Draco told me all about the Unbreakable Vow. Doesn’t matter. You should have died for him. He would have for you.”

Severus stares at him for a very long time. Even Lucius Malfoy was more flexible in his judgements, and Voldemort more considerate. “Heaven help me against the tender mercies of Gryffindors,” he mutters, and doesn’t flinch at the feel of the wandtip against his jugular.

“He was worth a hundred of you,” Potter snarls.

“You don’t think I know that?” Severus all but yells, and it’s been a while since anyone stirred this much emotion in him: of course, it would be Potter. “But I wanted to live, amazingly enough.”

There’s a pause. Severus licks his lips and finds the will to speak. “Where is Draco?”

“Outside. In a body bind. He told me lots of things. Actually quite co-operative, once you hex him enough. Not that he didn’t give me trouble; I never would have thought Draco Malfoy would be such a fucker to defeat in a duel, and even then he still wouldn’t help me.”

“So I suppose you hexed him until he did,” Severus sneers, knowing all too well what Gryffindors are capable of.

“No,” Potter says, flatly, eyes dark. “I didn’t have to. He sold you out, in the end. For something more than thirty pieces of silver, I have to admit. Or an apple.”

If they are jokes – and they appear to be, black, savage humour, from the way Potter grins harshly at him, tongue lolling a little – then Severus doesn’t get them. He feels a slight tightness in his chest at Draco’s betrayal, but isn’t surprised. (It’s heartening that he manages not to be surprised; if he cannot feel shock, then nothing can touch him.) “What was his price?”

“Oh, after I killed Voldemort, I went searching after you. Found him along the way. Took a while, but I found out what made him tick.” The smile on Draco’s face is not pleasant. “I helped him corner Bellatrix Lestrange. He did the messy part, though. You wouldn’t believe the ways he came up with to make her scream before she died. Very inventive young man, is our Draco. I was quite proud. You should be as well, starring light of your House and all.”

Severus smiles thinly. “Draco has always made me proud.”

“Yeah, well, he’s too busy resting right now to take the compliment.” He stretches a little, keeps talking like he’s making conversation, like he cares about making conversation, as if he hasn’t got Draco Malfoy stacked out like a rack of meat in the cold and wet outside, or his wand pressed giddily to Severus’ neck in anticipation of his murder. “I do think of him as _our_ Draco. You don’t mind, do you? Well, if you do, I don’t give a toss. After all, between the two of us, we’ve shaped him, watch him grow. Even broken him a little.” He flicks his tongue out onto his lower lip almost avidly, and it’s more than a trifle disconcerting to see Draco discuss himself so sensually. “You know, he used to be completely infatuated with me. It’s amazing the things one will admit when one will say anything. _Do_ anything.”

The spark in his eyes is more Draco than Potter; so is the smirk; Severus does not want to think about what they have taught one another, but ironically, now, so close to his own demise, he cannot think of anything else. It is prurient, impotent jealousy he is reduced to, pure and simple; nine months is a long time, and both Potter and Draco are no longer children. He thinks of ripped clothing, and clawing hands, and desperation and frenzied kisses, and knows too well how Draco can be swayed.

“He didn’t go down easy, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Potter tells him, and the smirk broadens, turns into something more hungry and wolfish. “As I said, he took much convincing, and there was a price. But he did go down.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Aren’t I just? Still, he’s not going to be happy with me in the morning. Although I suppose he’ll be too busy to notice I’ve gone. If I leave him with those memories, that is. Still, he'll be occupied getting the ticker tape parade he’s always wanted and all, that should fill whatever hole I choose to leave in his heart.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he’s going to kill Severus Snape.”

“That’s Draco’s wand you’re holding.”

“Got it in one. And people always said you were brighter than you looked.”

“I suppose you’ll have to modify his memory.”

“It will take some tweaking. Admittedly, I got the whole idea for this from an old…friend.”

“Why not take the credit for yourself?”

“Because it’s not about credit.” Grey eyes sear into his own. “It’s about justice.”

“It’s about petty revenge.”

“That too. Besides, Draco’s always been unable to decide whether he’s hero or villain. I figured I'd do him a favour, make up his mind for him.”

“How _generous_ of you,” Severus sneers.

“I thought so. He’ll be feted as the man who brought Albus Dumbledore’s killer to justice.” He pauses, and gives a shrug that might have been a sob or a laugh. “He was always jealous of my fame. He can have it. He can have all of it. The Ministry can turn him into their poster boy and leave me the fuck alone.”

“And what about you, Potter? Where will you go? Where will you hide?”

“Well, first I’ll drag Draco off with me and make sure he remembers he’s a real boy now.” He pauses, and when he continues his voice is wistful, almost soft, young and tender. “You know, I think I’ll miss him looking at me the way he does. There hasn’t been anyone since Ginny died. I couldn’t afford it.”

“But you could afford to risk Draco?”

“He was a soldier long before I came along. He was _born_ to be a casualty.”

From what Severus knows of the Malfoy family, he can’t disagree. “And then? When all your plans are in place and your escape set?”

“I hear Rio’s very good at this time of year.”

“Don’t be facetious. Have you no respect for someone you’re about to kill?”

“I have no respect for you at all,” Potter mutters cheerily. “Goodbye, Professor.”

He suddenly thinks about moving, about trying to move, something, anything, and a memory stirs, unbidden, in his mind.

_Severus, please-_

“Albus wouldn’t want you to do this,” he roars, suddenly strong again, burning with the will to survive, and presses his neck closer. “But if you would break every hope he had, every belief, every ounce of faith he had in life and love and you, then come on and finish this and make a mockery of his memory!”

“Don’t you dare!” Potter yells back, and he’s crying, Draco’s face going puffy, Draco’s eyes watering and red. “You don’t get to say that! You don’t get to say his name! And it doesn’t matter! He’s _dead_! You _killed_ him! What does it matter when he’s dead and he _lost_ and it’s all your _fault_ and none of it means a _damn_ if all it did was get him killed.” He sniffles. Severus wouldn't lend him a handkerchief even if he wasn't under threat of death.

There’s a sigh. It’s his. Potter doesn’t laugh. He thinks that makes it worse. This then, is his victory. This is his triumph. For all the trials, for all the pain and loss and hardship, this is his reward. To be reduced to nothing by a frightened little boy who just wants someone to hurt.

“Then you should kill me, if you’re _going_ to.” His contempt for this farce is complete, and rings loudly in his own ears.

“I can kill you if I want to!”

Potter’s voice is perilously close to breaking, and he won’t be swayed. Severus slumps a little, and stretches his fingers. He wonders if Albus felt this tired at the end, thinks he probably did.

The world fades; at least he will finally get to rest.

He falls into sleep.   


 


End file.
